


But I've become what I can't be

by caranfindel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Season/Series 02, Supernatural and J2 Big Bang Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 10:23:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7167314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caranfindel/pseuds/caranfindel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A season 2 casefic that takes place immediately after "Playthings." Still reeling from John's revelation that Dean might have to kill his brother, the Winchesters find themselves in Nashville. They're investigating a case in which people are being brutally murdered by their loved ones, which cuts just a little too close to home, considering that Sam is trying to get Dean to accept that he might have to kill his own loved one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This town is colder now, I think it's sick of us

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the 2016 Supernatural and J-squared Big Bang Challenge on [LiveJournal.](http://spn-j2-bigbang.livejournal.com)
> 
> Huge shoutout to my lovely artist, [Stargazingchola.](Http://stargazingchola.livejournal.com) Please visit [her art post](http://stargazingchola.livejournal.com/3162.html) and show her some love. 
> 
> Also available on [my LJ.](http://caranfindel.livejournal.com/110988.html)
> 
> Thanks also to my wonderful betas, [gingersnap1224](Http://gingersnap1224.livejournal.com) and [celtic_forest.](Http://Celtic-forest.livejournal.com)

_[ 1. This town is colder now, I think it's sick of us ]_

Nashville is cold. Damp, windy, chill-you-to-the-bone cold. And Dean seems to consider it a personal affront; maybe even a failing on Sam's part. He clutches his coat to his chest (over-dramatically, Sam muses) as they leave the motel office. "Dammit," he growls, "you said Tennessee would be warmer than Connecticut. It's fucking freezing." Sam ignores him, because really? The weather is an issue? The temperature matters that much? On a scale ranging from "surprisingly unpleasant" to "more fucked up than you could possibly imagine," _Tennessee is colder than I thought it would be_ is pretty far below _My father's last words were instructing my brother that he might need to kill me._ Sam really couldn't care less about the weather right now. 

He stops to stare across the parking lot at the massive church on the other side of the highway. "That's all one church?" Dean asks, stopping next to him. "Cause it just looks like a big church connected to an even bigger church."

"The smaller building - or, I guess, the less big building - was the original church," Sam says, reading what he printed from the church's website. The stiff, cold wind threatens to snatch the paper from his hand. "In 1990, they were, quote, _blessed by the Lord with the resources to build a new sanctuary._ That's the bigger part. They just gutted the old church and use it for offices and classrooms and stuff now."

_"Blessed,"_ Dean mutters, blinking up at the massive, ornately-carved edifice. "Because they're crazy enough to believe there's a God up there just throwing money down on them." He retrieves his duffel from the back seat of the Impala and heads for their room. "And you think the church is the connection? I mean, that's a big church. Gotta be a thousand or so members. Maybe two of them getting murdered isn't as weird as you think."

It isn't Dean's first protest against this being an actual case, and Sam doesn't understand why he doesn't get it. It's like he _refuses_ to get it. "Two of them murdered by loved ones who say they don't remember doing it." He grabs his own bag and falls in behind Dean. "That's the weird part."

"Yeah. Murderers saying they don't remember murdering anybody," Dean laughs. _"Weird."_ He opens the door and flicks on the light, revealing their typical shabby room, and Sam sighs. Connecticut sucked for a lot of reasons, but the inn was a pleasant departure from their routine.

Dean punches a couple of buttons on the heater and it rattles noisily into service. He stands in front of it, adjusting the vents and testing the airflow, then tosses his bag on the bed that he's calculated will get the most warm air. He turns and grins at Sam. "I call dibs on the spare blanket, Mr. Tennessee-Will-Be-Nice-This-Time-Of-Year." Sam doesn't rise to the bait, and Dean turns back to his bag. "How's your hand doing?"

The sudden change of topic makes Sam smile. Leave it to Dean to snag the warmest bed, and then immediately feel guilty enough to start mother-henning over Sam's broken hand. "Still here," he says, holding it up for inspection. "See?"

"You sure it's okay? We didn't cut the cast off too soon?" 

"Dean, I keep telling you, it's fine. The damn thing had to come off either way after it got so wet, and I was really tired of it. I'm glad it's gone."

"Yeah, I guess it would interfere with your... _activities."_ Dean raises his eyebrows suggestively.

"Oh, shut up," Sam groans. "It interfered with writing and typing, and you know that."

"Sure. I guess you use your left hand for _other things."_

Sam takes in the lecherous grin and the fake cheer and wants to say _stop it, please, stop it. Stop hiding and deflecting and sidestepping and just fucking talk to me about it. Tell me what you think. Tell me what Dad said to you, and why he didn't say anything to me. Tell me fucking ANYTHING._ But he doesn't say any of that. He knows it won't do any good. Instead, he sits heavily on the other bed and yawns, which gives Dean's mother-hen instinct another nudge.

"You didn't sleep last night."

"Sure I did," Sam lies. Well, it's not entirely a lie. He did sleep some. Because you can't have nightmares if you don't fall asleep.

"Yeah, I wouldn't know. Not like I was right there in the car with you or anything."

"Look. You know I don't sleep all that well in the car sometimes. It's not a big deal."

"Whatever." Dean turns and rummages through his duffel for a change of clothes. "Are we Feds or reporters today?"

That was suspiciously easy, and Sam doesn't trust it. Dean's not usually brushed off so quickly. "Feds. I don't think the church staff will want to talk very openly to reporters about their members being murdered."

"It does put a damper on their whole _blessed by the Lord_ story," Dean mutters. He inspects his dress shirt. "I hope this place has an iron."

Yeah, so much for being blessed. Sam goes over his notes again. Two people, members of Bethel Pentecostal Church, murdered in the last month. Murdered by family members, people who loved them, who claim to have no memory of the act. Belinda Montrose, her throat cut by a husband who, according to everyone who knew them, cherished and adored her. Paul Kramer, whose by all accounts devoted mother bashed his head in with a hammer. There's got to be a case here. And if not, if Dean's right, then, dammit. He'll find another one. Because he needs to think about something other than himself. He needs to not think about what's wrong with him, what Dad knew, what Dad feared, what Dad told Dean. He needs to not think about the others like him - Ava, Andy, Scott, Max, Ansem - and the death and destruction trailing behind them. He really, really needs to not think about that.


	2. It's time to make our move, I'm shaking off the rust

_[ 2. It's time to make our move, I'm shaking off the rust ]_

Having freshly ironed the front and cuffs of his white dress shirt _(and no, Sam, it doesn't matter, it's not like he's going to take his jacket off anyway, it's fucking freezing out there),_ Dean leans on the door and flashes an annoyed look at his brother, who's still trying to coax his hair into some semblance of an FBI-approved style. "Dude," he grumbles. "It's as manly as it's gonna get. Let's get a move on." Sam rolls his eyes and shrugs on his overcoat.

A pedestrian bridge spans the interstate between the hotel and the church, floating high in the dreary gray morning sky. It's even colder up here, and Dean shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat as he watches the traffic below. All those clueless people, heading toward jobs and friends and homes and families, not knowing how easily it could all be ripped away by pure random evil. He never really understood Sam's craving to be one of them. Why would you want to be ignorant about the true nature of the world, when you could be out there saving people? But now he remembers Dad's last words, remembers the promise Sam drunkenly extracted from him in Connecticut, remembers waiting for his brother to succumb to a demonic virus in Oregon, and maybe Sam had a point. Maybe it's better not to know there really is something under your bed. Especially when there's nothing you can do about it anyway.

And right now, more than ever before, there's nothing he can do about it.

The older part of the church is filled with dark wood, subdued lighting, plush carpets, and art cloying enough to cause a toothache - benevolent saints and angels with open arms, beaming down on them from puffy white clouds. Dean knows none of these entities are actually watching over him, no matter what Mom thought.

Pastor James Clark greets them under the vaulted ceiling of the lobby and escorts them back to his office. Like everything else about his church, Clark's office is large and comfortable. Sam gratefully accepts his offer of coffee, which is not a surprise considering how often he woke gasping and stuttering out of a nightmare last night, and the only real mystery is why he thinks Dean doesn't notice. Dean starts to decline, but changes his mind when he sees Clark uses actual ceramic mugs, not styrofoam cups. 

The Winchesters sink into a pair of low-slung armchairs in front of the neatly-arranged desk, and Sam begins the interview. Dean wraps his hands around his mug, soaking up the warmth, and doesn't pay much attention to whatever backstory his brother has come up with to justify their presence. The whole damn job is Sam's baby, and he's gonna let him handle this part of it. And it's nice to have him back, to deal with this part of the job. John's people skills always left Dean on edge, waiting to undo the damage. It's a mutinous thought, but there it is. He appreciates being able to sit back and let Sam handle the touchy-feely, dealing-with-civilians shit when he's not in the mood, and if there's one thing he knows about Sam, it's that he's very good at the touchy-feeling, dealing-with-civilians shit. He sits quietly, Agent Rhodes to Sam's Agent Osbourne, and listens to him drone about _patterns of killings_ and _statistical anomalies_ and _routine investigation_ and _probably nothing_ and _dotting all the Is, crossing all the Ts,_ and it's not until he gets a look of sympathy from Pastor Clark that he realizes Sam has pitched this investigation as the most lowly, boring kind of grunt work possible. Which is annoying, since he could have made them rock stars, X-Files types who get sent to handle the most puzzling and fascinating cases. On the other hand, rock stars get remembered, and grunt workers don't, and this job is easier when you're not particularly memorable, and see, that's why Sam needed to come back. That's why this works better with Sam on board.

"What can you tell us about Darius and Belinda Montrose?" Sam asks.

Pastor Clark smiles fondly. "Good, good people. Active in the church, active in the community, raised two wonderful children. It's really awful, what happened. I suppose I understand, in a way, that Darius wanted to end her suffering. I pray for that poor man every day."

Wait, what? "End her suffering?" Dean asks. Sam flashes him a dirty look. Okay, so he didn't study before the quiz. Whatever.

"Her cancer," Sam says, with a pinched look. He turns back to Clark. "And you were with them right before she was killed."

"Yes. I said some healing prayers over her that morning. And she wanted to talk about her service. Belinda was a good woman and full of faith, but... sometimes the Lord heals you, and sometimes He calls you to be somewhere else." Okay, Dean would like to sit this man down and explain to him that there is no God who sends a demon to take your mother and your father and your brother's girlfriend _someplace else._ And if there was, that's a God no one should worship. A God that anyone with sense would refuse to believe in. He bites his lip and lets Sam continue.

"Was there any connection you're aware of between the Montrose and Kramer families? Other than attending this church?"

Clark tips back in his chair and looks thoughtfully toward the ceiling. "Nothing I can think of. Both Paul and Belinda sang in the choir at one point, but Belinda was in the main church choir and Paul used to be in the youth choir, and those are completely separate. They didn't even come to the same service. The Montroses were regulars at the 8:00 service, and the Kramers were, well... rather sporadic attendees at the 10:30 service. In fact, Cheryl Kramer stopped attending a couple of years ago. She just brought Paul for some of the teen activities. I saw her the day before... " Clark pauses uncomfortably, and Dean wonders how the guy's going to figure out a graceful way to say _before she violently murdered her teenage son._ "The day before Paul passed," he finally continues. "But before that, I hadn't seen her in months."

Sam's ears have pricked up. "You saw her the day before Paul was killed? What was her state of mind? What was she doing?"

The pastor shakes his head. "I'm afraid I can't say. I didn't talk to her. She wasn't even in the church. I just saw her in the parking lot, waiting for Paul."

Sam pauses long enough that it looks like they're done, but it turns out he's simply trying to stifle a huge yawn. "Excuse me, Pastor," he says. "Lot of research last night." 

Clark smiles and peers at Sam curiously. "Are you okay, son?" Dean does the same, and honestly, he really doesn't look all that good - he's a little pale, with dark circles under his eyes. And Dean knows it's got nothing to do with sleeping in the damn car. Sam's nightmares, which had mostly subsided in the months since Jess died, are ramping up again. Which really isn't surprising, considering. 

"I'm fine, thanks," Sam says. "Could we look at the sanctuary before we go?" Dean shoots his brother a look. _You do realize I know you just want to get your church geek on, right?_ Sam pretends not to get it, and as Dean sighs quietly, they follow Clark out of the office.

A short connecting hall leads into the new sanctuary. The hall is lined with a dozen or so portraits hung on the wall, each with a polished brass plaque. Sam stops to observe a cluster at the end of the hall. "Important people?"

"Important to our church's history," Clark explains. "This is Gwendolyn Gilchrist." He gestures to a portrait of a sharp-faced young woman who looks like she's in her twenties, or possibly early thirties. Judging from the hair and clothing, the portrait itself is from the 1970s. "Miss Gwen, everyone called her. She was the church's choir director for almost forty years. Lovely lady; died just a few months ago." He turns to a more modern photo of a round-faced older man. "Pastor Walter Hartsell. I came on board when he retired, and I'll join him on this wall some day. Wally still attends services here, but I don't think he approves of my sermons." He chuckles gently and turns to the oldest photo, a faded black and white portrait of a young man with thick wavy hair and kind eyes. "And this is Pastor John Fleming, our founder. He started Bethel as a small country church in 1930 and helped make it what it is today." 

A pair of wooden doors opens into the larger sanctuary. It's impossibly huge. Fairly new construction, but designed to look old. Rows of dark polished pews are divided by three aisles, converging on a stage (okay, Dean knows it's not actually called a stage, but that's what it feels like to him) that houses a large pulpit, a raised area with microphones and a drum set, and a huge wooden communion table in the center, waist high and easily seven feet across. Both the communion table and the pulpit are intricately carved, covered in flourishes and trimmed with corbels. The massive stained glass windows are muted against the cold gray sky, but Dean can imagine them bursting with color on a sunny Sunday morning.

"Nice place," he muses.

"Thank you." Clark puts his hands in his pockets and comfortably surveys his domain. "We've definitely been blessed."

Must be nice, to feel blessed. Of course, it's all a lie. Pastor Clark has been lucky, or skilled, but not _blessed._ But still, it must be a comforting feeling, to believe there's someone up there on your side, someone watching over you. Dean wouldn't know; all of his comfort comes from things he can see. His weapons. His car. His brother.

Sam is slowly spinning, head tipped back, taking it all in. His interest runs to truly old things, not new things trying to look old, so there's no telling what it is about this church that's grabbed his attention. "Have you noticed anything unusual lately?" he asks, taking a couple of steps down the aisle. "Odd smells? Strange noises? Cold spots?" He looks back at Dean and lifts his eyebrows, then glances at Dean's pocket. EMF meter. Which is... in his duffle, back at the motel. _Shit._

"All of Tennessee's a cold spot right now, son," Pastor Clark laughs, clapping a hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam laughs and pivots just enough to turn Clark away from Dean, who is supposed to be doing a little surreptitious EMF reading right now. "But no, I haven't noticed anything unusual. Why? How would that be related?"

"Oh, you know," he shrugs. "Patterns." He smiles apologetically. _Sorry to bother you with our boring insignificant research, good sir. Please be sure to forget I asked._

"No, sorry, I can't really say I've noticed anything." 

"All right then. Thanks for your help." Sam takes a step toward the door, then turns to Pastor Clark again. "Oh, hey, how many people does your sanctuary hold?" He continues walking slowly toward the door, causing Clark to follow him, which would be awesome if Dean were behind them reading his EMF meter. But he's not. He catches up with them as Sam hands Clark a card. "Please give us a call if you think of anything." 

Clark cheerfully shakes their hands. "I will. Good luck, boys. Thanks for your service." That should make Dean feel a little guilty, but it really doesn't. Even if the man doesn't know what their actual service is, damn straight they deserve to be thanked for it. Then the pastor claps a hand on Sam's shoulder again and quietly adds "I'll have you in my prayers, son." Sam gives him a little smile that looks convincingly sincere, and Dean feels his hackles raise a little bit as Clark turns around and heads back into the connecting hall. Like this man's prayers to a non-existent God are going to help anyone.

He braces himself for the cold as Sam nudges the massive carved door open. Once outside, Sam stops on the concrete steps and turns to look back at the church. "You get anything?" he asks.

"I, uh." _Dammit._ "I left the EMF meter at the motel."

"What?" Sam whirls around to gape at him. _"Seriously?"_

"I forgot it, Sam. People forget things."

Sam throws up his hands in frustration. "Yeah, people forget things. And people ignore things. And people blow off things. So which one of those are you doing?"

"Dammit, Sam, I am not blowing this off. I just forgot, all right? It happens. And what was that all about, with Clark having you in his prayers?"

"Don't change the subject."

"Subject number one is finished. I forgot the EMF meter. End of story. New subject: Why is that guy praying for you?"

"Fuck if I know. He saw me yawning. He could tell I was tired. I don't know. Maybe I just look like a guy who needs to be prayed for. Why does it matter?" Sam looks away and sighs heavily. Probably counting to ten. Or doing some relaxation mantra or whatever weird shit he picked up in California. "Okay. Let's go get the EMF meter and then talk to Mr. Montrose."


	3. I've got my heart set on anywhere but here

_[ 3. I've got my heart set on anywhere but here ]_

"All right, Sam, explain to me again why we're doing this," Dean says as he steers the Impala down the Montrose's street. It's neat and quiet, lined with magnolias and dogwoods. The kind of street where people think they're safe from any kind of evil, supernatural or not. "Cause so far, it just sounds like a guy who offed his wife."

"Darius Montrose," Sam reads from his notes. The notes Dean would have already read, if he wasn't being such a dick about this case. "His wife Belinda was suffering from metastatic cancer and was given a few more months to live. They came home from a meeting with Pastor Clark, where they were literally planning her funeral. Here. This is their house, on the right."

"And healing prayers," says Dean, as he parks on the street in front of a large, elegant brick house. "Don't forget good ol' Pastor Clark was sending up those healing prayers for her. And you."

Sam ignores the comment - he's had enough of this bullshit about the prayers. The more people praying for him, the better, and he doesn't care if Dean has a problem with it. "They get home, she lays down for a nap, and he cuts her throat. And doesn't remember doing it." They climb out of the Impala and head up a nicely landscaped walkway.

"So, like I said, a guy who offed his wife. And he's out on the street because...?"

Sam suppresses the urge to wrap his coat tightly around him. Dean was right; Tennessee is a lot colder than it ought to be, but he's not going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. He waves at their genteel surroundings. "Fine upstanding member of the community, not considered a flight risk, general consensus is that it was a mercy killing. Boom, he's out on bail." 

"Mercy killing. Because she was dying of cancer. So how is a mercy killing our business?"

They step onto the broad front porch. "Because I don't think it's a mercy killing," Sam sighs. Because when you want to put someone you love out of their misery, you don't cut their throat. And yes, he's thought about exactly how you _would_ put someone you love out of their misery. He's considered the pros and cons of a bullet to the brain versus a pillow over their unconscious face. He thinks Dean would probably be horrified to know how often he thinks about the logistics of a merciful death.

He presses the burnished brass doorbell, putting on his Fed face when the door opens. "Mr. Montrose? I'm Agent Osbourne and this is Agent Rhodes. Thank you for agreeing to see us on such short notice." 

Darius Montrose is the saddest-looking man Sam has ever seen, with big chocolate-brown eyes that droop like a Bassett hound's. He doesn't speak, but opens the door wider and motions them inside. He leads them into a glassed-in sunroom, cheerful even on this dreary day, with bright-cushioned wicker furniture and flowering plants. Framed photos show the Montrose family in happier times: weddings, graduations, vacations. One photo shows four people in evening wear - Darius, Belinda, a man who looks so much like a younger version of Darius that he must be their son, and a pretty young blonde woman who looks very familiar. Sam can't place her, but he recognizes her from somewhere.

"This was Binny's favorite room in the house," Montrose says, settling into a chair. Sam and Dean take the wicker sofa across from him. "She wanted to be in here when she passed."

"Is this where..." Sam nudges Dean's foot before he can finish his question, but Montrose shakes his head. 

"No. Upstairs, in our bedroom." He sighs and looks around him. "If that's why you're here, you can go on up. I don't go in there any more."

"Right now we just want to ask you some questions, and try to find out what happened," Sam says. "I know this is difficult, but if you can tell us everything you remember, it would be very helpful. I know you've talked to the police, but we'd like to hear it directly from you, in your own words. What do you remember about that day? Was there anything unusual, even something that you didn't think could be related?"

Montrose settles back into his chair. "Like I said, we went to the church to talk to Pastor Clark about Binny's... Binny wanted to plan her service. She said she wanted to take that off me. She was the one who was dying, but she was always more worried about me." He pushes aside his glasses to wipe his eyes. "And then we came home and she went upstairs for a nap..." His voice trails off.

"And so that's when...?" asks Dean. Sam nudges his foot again. _For Christ's sake, Dean, stop pushing the poor guy._

"Maybe you should go check out the bedroom now, Agent Rhodes," Sam says, putting a hand on his jacket pocket. Dean pats his own pocket, where Sam made damn sure he stashed his EMF meter, and nods.

"Yeah, I'll go do that." Dean stands and moves toward the stairs. "Don't worry, Mr. Montrose. You don't need to be there."

Montrose nods without looking at Dean or the stairs to his bedroom. "Go on ahead. It's the last door on the right." He rests a hand morosely on his cheek and turns to stare at the photos of his former life. "I don't know," he says slowly. "I don't know. It was like I was having a nightmare. When I woke up I was holding the knife, and there was so much blood, and she was dying. I remember calling 911, but I don't remember anything before that. I didn't remember doing it. I still don't remember."

Sam wishes he could say something. Anything. _We'll catch the monster who did this._ Except, as far as you know, it was you. _I know how you feel. The woman I loved died because of me, too. And it's never going to be okay._ Yeah, that's helpful. _It wasn't your fault._ But nothing will ever convince this man that his wife's death wasn't his fault. Sam knows that better than anyone.

Dean shakes his head briefly when he steps back into the room. No EMF, then. It's no surprise - whatever tore the Montrose family apart, it doesn't seem to be limited to their house. 

"Mr. Montrose," Sam asks, "Has anything like this happened to you before? The memory loss?"

"Never. I've never had anything like this." He looks at Sam imploringly. "My lawyer and my doctor say I must have had some kind of retrograde amnesia. Something caused by the emotional trauma. They say I did it to end her pain. That must be it, don't you think?"

_(Is this how it's going to be when it comes for me? Will it slip in unchecked, unnoticed until it's too late? Will I know it's coming? Will I be able to fight it?_

_Will I even want to fight it?)_

"I'm sure it is. I'm sure it was something like that."

///

"What did you think?" Sam asks, trailing Dean back to the Impala.

"I'm still not seeing it," Dean mutters over his shoulder. "And even if this is our kind of thing - "

Sam's patience for Dean's doubt, stretched the point of breaking, finally snaps. He stops and grabs his brother's arm. "Dean. If there's even the _slightest_ chance this is something we can stop, we have to stop it." Because people who can't stop themselves have to be stopped by someone else.

Dean stares at him with a squint of concern. "You all right?"

_(I'm a hand grenade, and I'm scared that someone already pulled the pin.)_

"I'm fine. I just. We really need to do this."

"Okay." Dean's concerned look doesn't quite go away, but now it's got an added dollop of confusion. "Okay, Sam." 

Following him down the brick-paved walkway, Sam thinks about being so out of control, doing something so irrevocable, and the shiver that rolls down his spine has nothing to do with Tennessee's unseasonably cold weather.


	4. I'm staring down myself, counting up the years

_[ 4. I'm staring down myself, counting up the years ]_

The Nashville police station is the kind Dean likes. Too casual to be steeped in ironclad procedures and protocols, but big enough that they can bluff their way into getting copies of the victims' files - and a little quality time with one of the killers - just by vaguely mentioning permission from higher-ups, without anyone saying "You mean Fred? He didn't tell me anything about you guys." A flash of a fake ID, some of Sam's best legal mumbo jumbo, and they're on their way.

"And why, exactly, are the Feds interested in a couple of local murders?" asks the officer escorting them to the interrogation room.

Dean raises an eyebrow at Sam. _Your case, you answer him._ "Yes, Agent Osbourne. Explain to the officer why the Feds are interested in a couple of local murders that don't seem to have a connection."

Sam closes his eyes and adopts an expression that Dean knows well - the _if I were looking at you, this guy could tell I'm planning to strangle you in your sleep look._ "Well, Agent Rhodes, as I was explaining in the car, these two killings may seem unrelated but they have some things in common with other murders around the country. We're just seeing if there's a pattern that might tie them together." He smiles brilliantly at the police officer. "Thank you for the case files. I'm sorry if it feels like we're wasting your time, but it's our job to sniff out these things. And if it turns out not to be our kind of thing, we'll be on our way. I assume that's not a problem."

Officer Whatshisface - Dean's already forgotten his name - glances at Dean and then looks away uncomfortably, like a kid watching his parents try to argue without sounding like they're arguing. Subtle move there, little brother. The guy obviously knows who Sam's mini-lecture was really meant for. "Not a problem at all," he replies. "Just curious." He unlocks the door to the interrogation room and quickly locks it behind them.

Cheryl Kramer is a small, faded-looking woman with glasses, mousy hair, and a thin, tired face. Her nails are bitten down to the quick, and she keeps her eyes focused on her hands, picking at her scabbed cuticles. "I don't understand why you're here," she says quietly. "I already told the police everything. How many more people do I have to talk to?"

Sam is in full-on empathetic mode, only stopping short of holding her hand, and Dean won't be surprised if that's the next step. "Mrs. Kramer," Sam says kindly, "We're not the local police. We're the FBI. Are you sure you told them everything? Could there be something you didn't want to tell them? Maybe you didn't think they'd believe you?"

But the puppy dog eyes won't work on someone who refuses to look at them. Cheryl drops her gaze even further, staring at her lap. "I'm not hiding anything," she says in a low monotone voice.

"No, no, I'm not saying you're hiding something," Sam says. "But sometimes people see or hear things that they don't want to talk about, because they don't think the authorities will believe them. I just want you to know that we're not like that. So if there's anything you were afraid to say earlier, you can tell us. We're here to listen."

Nothing. Cheryl sighs deeply but doesn't look up from her lap. Sam catches Dean's eye and mouths _drugs?_ It doesn't seem likely that a woman in the county lockup would be allowed sedatives, but it would explain her trancelike behavior, and God knows she'd probably need them. Dean would need them. Dean would need to be strapped to the bed, drugged to the gills, stripped of his belt and shoelaces, and on a 24/7 suicide watch if he were in her shoes. And yeah, he has been thinking about that a lot. Can't stop thinking about it.

"Mrs. Kramer," he says sharply. If she's in a drugged haze, he wants to cut through it. "I know you've given a statement to the police, but we're the FBI, and we'd like to hear it directly from you. Can you tell me what you remember about the incident?"

"The incident?" She jerks her head up. "The incident? You mean, me murdering my son? Is that what we're calling it? An _incident?"_

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Kramer. I know this is difficult."

The room reverberates with a loud smack as she stands up and slaps the table with both hands. "No, you don't know! You don't know a goddamn thing! Difficult? You have no idea how much I loved my boy! I never gave up even when he got sick and his father left us, and then I wake up one day and I'm standing over my Paul with blood all over my hands and blood all over his face, and you call it _difficult?"_ She crumples back into her chair, drained, and now she's looking Dean in the eye and won't let go. "I loved him so much, and I killed him. Can you even imagine?"

Dean feels his heart slowly stutter to a stop because he can, he does, he imagines, no matter how hard he tries not to. He pictures his hands stained red with Sam's blood and he wonders if he could do it and if he could ever forgive himself if he did, and if Sam would forgive him if he didn't, and now here's Cheryl Kramer, sitting here in this interrogation room like the ghost of fucking Christmas future, showing him what it's going to feel like. He feels Sam staring at him but he can't figure out how to get started again; he's momentarily forgotten how to give a shit about the deaths of people he doesn't know, and suddenly Sam is speaking.

"You woke up? What do you mean, you woke up?"

"God! I told you, I don't want to go through this again! I just kind of woke up, like I was sleepwalking or something, there was blood everywhere and I woke up. Please, don't make me do this again." She's fading again. She slumps back into her chair and stares at her hands, at her bloody, torn cuticles.

Sam's voice softens. "No, of course, Mrs. Kramer. We're almost done." He looks down at his notes. "Can you tell me about Paul's activities in the church?"

"Just teen stuff," she sighs. "The youth group. He used to be very involved. But things got... complicated."

"So he wasn't in the choir?"

"Not for a couple of years. Like I said, things got complicated. With his illness." 

"Yes." Sam nods knowingly, the little bullshit artist. "His illness. His..." He pauses and flips through his notes, as if he's already got Paul Kramer's medical history written down somewhere.

"His schizophrenia." She looks away and wipes her eyes. "Can we stop now?"

Sam gives her a sad, sympathetic smile. "I'm so sorry to have to ask you these questions, but there's just one more thing I need to know. Do you remember anything unusual leading up to... what happened? Do you remember hearing voices, or feeling cold spots, or smelling anything unusual, like rotten eggs?"

"Oh, you think since Paul was schizophrenic, I must be crazy too? Or I was having a stroke? I wish to God I was. I wish I had some excuse. But I don't remember anything. All I remember is the blood and waking up and seeing my Paul... and I don't know why. I don't know why." She stops staring at her hands and looks up at Sam. "Are we done?"

"Of course, Mrs. Kramer," Sam says. "We're very sorry for your loss." He scoops up the case files and raps on the door to get Officer Whatshisface's attention. "If you think of anything later that you'd like to tell us, please let one of the staff here know." But Cheryl Kramer is staring at her hands, lost in her own world again.

Dean feels a little lost too, as he wordlessly follows Sam out of the building.


	5. Steady hands just take the wheel

_[ 5. Steady hands just take the wheel ]_

Dean angrily shoves a tape into the cassette player and his finger twitches on the volume knob, filling the car with sound as if he's trying to physically fill the space between them with Led Zeppelin.

Sam faces forward, looking out the windshield. Not looking at Dean. Resisting the urge to slide his gaze to the left, to see if Dean's knuckles on the steering wheel are as white as he suspects they are, to see how tightly his jaw is clenched. Pretending he didn't see Dean flinch at what Cheryl Kramer said. He tells himself it's out of respect for Dean's privacy, so he doesn't feel scrutinized, and that's part of it, but it's also because if he sees how tightly wound Dean is, he'll be afraid to talk about it. And he has to talk about it.

"It's not going to be like that, you know," he says. 

"What?" Dean's eyes don't leave the road.

"I'm just saying, it doesn't have to be like that," Sam practically has to shout over the music, and _crap,_ this is going well, isn't it? All he wants is a calm, reasoned discussion about a subject that's painful but can't be ignored. Is that too much to hope for?

"Dammit, Sam, you're talking over The Immigrant Song. How many times do I have to tell you, never talk over The Immigrant Song!"

Yes, it's too much to hope for. 

He reaches over and pops the tape out, earning a jaw-clenched glare. "It doesn't have to be traumatic," he continues. "Or violent."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Dean demands. Even though Sam's pretty sure he knows exactly what he's talking about.

"I know what you were thinking back there, with Mrs. Kramer. And it's not going to be like that. If you have to. You know."

Dean's eyes are still locked on the road. "Sam. I told you, I'm not -"

"No. Don't you do that. Don't go back on your word. Dad said you might have to - to stop me, and you promised you would. You _promised,_ Dean." Sam winces at his own words. He sounds like a whiny baby brother demanding a promised ice cream cone. The kind of baby brother who doesn't understand yet that big brothers, and fathers, and those who are some incongruous combination of the two, sometimes make promises they can't keep.

"Well, fuck my promise," Dean snaps. "He had no right to ask me to do that, and neither do you." And Sam saw that one coming, but it doesn't make it any easier, because he knows what Dean was thinking as he listened to Cheryl Kramer's story; he knows exactly what Dean's afraid of. But he sees _himself_ in her, too. In Darius Montrose. He sees himself submerged in guilt and grief over a death he caused when he wasn't himself, and he can't let that happen. People _(more people)_ can't die just because Sam exists.

"You're really just gonna ignore what Dad said?"

"You know, if Dad wanted to be in charge of things, he could have fucking hung around, couldn't he? Dad can just..." Dean flinches, and Sam knows what he was about to say. _Dad can just go to Hell._ Except. Yeah. "Dad can go fuck himself," Dean says.

"So you're just going to let me turn into some kind of monster? Into what we hunt? You're really going to do that to me?"

"Sam, I am not having this conversation with you."

"Ignoring it isn't going to make it go away."

"Jesus Christ, Sam! What part of _not having this conversation_ did you not understand?"

Sam opens his mouth to speak, but Dean pushes the tape back in and twists the volume knob, and whatever he was going to say is drowned out by Robert Plant's wail. And the truth is, he's not sure what he can say anyway. 

The ride back to the motel is both uncomfortably noisy and disturbingly quiet.


	6. And every glance is killing me

_[ 6. And every glance is killing me ]_

Once they're in the room, Dean shucks off his suit jacket, grabs a beer from the mini fridge, and starts flipping through channels. He pauses on a college basketball game and makes sure it's not Stanford before he flops onto a bed and puts the remote down. Sam parks at the small table with the case files and Dean doesn't know what he's looking for, but he's probably not going to find it. Because bad things just happen sometimes, and it doesn't always mean there's some kind of supernatural evil involved. Sometimes life just shits all over you, and there's not a goddamn thing you can do about it.

"So," Sam says. "Schizophrenia. And cancer."

And... silence.

"And?"

"I'm not sure. It's just... You know. Both the victims were sick. Could it be related?"

Dean grunts. Could be, but probably not. Because, once again, sometimes life just shits on you. Sometimes. More often than not, if you're a Winchester.

"I don't know, Sam," he sighs. "It's a big church. It could still be a coincidence."

"Not big enough. Statistically, this is still way out of whack."

"Yeah, but statistics aren't really our kind of thing, are they? I mean, there's got to be some additional weirdness, and we haven't found it."

Dean doesn't even know why he's resisting. They've certainly followed weaker trails. And he should welcome the distraction of a case - anything to steer his mind, and Sam's for that matter, away from more dangerous topics. But a case where people are murdering their family members really isn't that much of a distraction from those _more dangerous topics,_ is it?

"Well, the music background," Sam muses. "They were both in choir at the church. That could be the connection." He continues paging through the files. "Whoa," he says, after a couple of minutes. "Look at this." He hands Dean a crime scene photo of the Montrose bedroom. 

Dean flicks his eyes over the photo, but he's not particularly interested. And maybe, just maybe, he doesn't want to see what poor old Binny looked like after her loving husband offed her. Maybe he doesn't want to be reminded that you can love the person you're killing, you can think you're doing the right thing, you can maybe even think you're ending their pain, and it's still bloody and awful and they're still dead. "Nice," he says, tossing it onto the bed. "I like their curtains."

Sam rolls his eyes and pushes it back toward him. "Doesn't that seem like... overkill to you? I mean, he didn't just slit her throat. Look at the size of that wound."

Dean sighs and picks up the photo again. Sam's right. Darius Montrose didn't just cut his wife's throat, he practically butchered it. "It looks like anger to me," he says. "Like he was mad as hell. Maybe everything wasn't so rosy over there after all." He slides the photo back to Sam, who studies it for a few minutes before dropping it back into the file. 

"Or maybe something was influencing him. This isn't the work of a man putting his beloved wife out of her misery. This looks angry. Or ritualistic."

"So what are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking... " Sam drums his fingers on the table. "Neither of the killers remembers anything - they both say they woke up afterward. So something was in control of them. Something that let up as soon as the victim was dead, since both of the killers were the ones who called 911." 

"And you think that something might have been...?"

Sam bites his lip uncertainly. "Angry spirit? Gwen Gilchrist seems like the most likely suspect. The choir director. Pastor Clark said she died a few weeks ago, right? So the choir director dies, and a few weeks later, people who left her choir start dying. Violently."

Yahtzee. Dean's ready to pounce on it. "And dear sweet Miss Gwen doesn't like it when someone stops the music. Well, we know what to do about that. Salt and burn the old girl."

"Hold on," says Sam. "That's just my first guess. We don't need to run off and - "

Nope. Nope. Dean's had enough. He's ready to finish this job and get the fuck out of Tennessee, and he's satisfied that torching dear sweet Miss Gwen is going to accomplish that. "Sam. Come on, man. This one's cut and dried. Let's send her on her way, and then we can go on ours."

Sam sighs. "Fine. We've got a few hours of daylight left before we can do anything. We should go check out where she was buried."

But Dean figures that after that fiasco of a conversation in the car, his brother owes him one. "I've got a better idea," he says, digging his keys out of his pocket and tossing them to Sam. "You do that while I sit in a nice warm motel room and watch the rest of this basketball game. And bring back dinner."

Sam tosses a pillow at his brother's head as he heads out the door but makes no other protest, which can only be interpreted as _you're right, wise older brother, and I accept my penance._ He stretches out on the bed, flipping through the channels again, but he can't concentrate on sitcom reruns and college basketball. His thoughts keep creeping back to Belinda Montrose's bloody body, stretched out on her own pretty bed, and he wonders if Darius waited until she was asleep, or if her eyes were wide open with terror and betrayal as the person who loved her most in the world stood over her with a knife in his hand.


	7. Time to make one last appeal for the life I lead

_[ 7. Time to make one last appeal for the life I lead ]_

Gwen Gilchrist's final resting place is about 45 minutes outside of Nashville. Dean accepts this news with a noncommittal grunt and settles down happily with his burger and fries, but Sam's still uneasy. His theory about Miss Gwen was just that; a theory. Dean jumped at the chance to blame the deaths on the choir director, but Sam's not quite sure. 

On the other hand, it's not like salting and burning her corpse is going to hurt her, so. Hardly worth an argument. One thing Sam has learned over the years is how to pick his battles, and he's got more important things to fight for right now. 

When it's time to leave, Dean heads out first to get the Impala warmed up. By the time Sam gets in the car it's uncomfortably hot, with the heater control pushed all the way into the red. "Jesus," he says, moving it back toward the center. "It's a freaking sauna in here."

Dean slaps his hand away and turns the heat up again as he pulls out of the parking lot. "I'm freezing, asswipe. Deal with it." Sam sighs and peels off his jacket. He struggles to stay awake, but Dean's too quiet, and the warmth and the gentle rocking of the Impala make it harder and harder to keep his eyes open, and maybe he can just rest them for a minute.

When he opens his eyes again, it's bright daylight. Dean's driving with his hands loose on the wheel, tapping out a drumbeat with his fingertips. His hair is ruffled by the breeze from the open window. He turns to smile at Sam; not the shit-eating grin he keeps in his pocket and pulls out when he needs it like a fake ID, but an easy, natural grin that Sam doesn't think he's seen in months. Sam smiles back and turns toward his own window, watching the scenery drift by. The car slows, and he hears the tires crunching on gravel as Dean pulls onto the shoulder. They park under a pine tree, beside a split-rail fence. When he turns to ask Dean why they've stopped here, the driver's seat is empty. 

Outside the car, a dark-haired man in a leather jacket is leaning against the fence, staring out over a clear, still lake that mirrors the brilliant blue sky overhead. Sam gets out of the car and stands next to him, resting his arms on top of the fence. The man doesn't turn to him, but he speaks.

"Something you want to tell me, son?" 

So many things. _I miss you_ and _I love you_ and _I'm sorry_ but mostly this. "Dammit, Dad, you know how fucked up this is, right? How could you keep it a secret from me? Didn't I have a right to know?"

John smiles sadly. "I tell you what you need to know, Sam. I always have."

Sam's hands curl into angry fists. "And you didn't need to tell me what's wrong with me? That a demon is interested in me? That Dean might have to _kill_ me?"

"Like I said, I tell you what I can. There are things I don't know. There's information you can't be trusted with. There are decisions you can't be the one to make."

"What the _fuck,_ Dad. This is about me. How long have you known? You couldn't even give me a little warning?"

"What's the point?" John's still looking over the lake, not at Sam, but his expression turns dark. "What if I had told you that you needed to stay so I could keep an eye on you? So I could stop you before anything happened? Would you have listened? Or would you have blown me off and done what you wanted to do, like you did when I told you to shoot the demon? If you had just followed orders back in that cabin, this would all be over now. But no, you had to spare my life, and for what? I'm dead anyway, and the demon is still out there."

"No, goddammit, that's not fair. Dean stopped me from shooting you."

John laughs bitterly. "That was _your_ decision, Sam. Dean can't stop you from doing anything you really want to do. If he could, you would never have left us."

 _"Left us?_ God, you make it sound like a failed marriage. I wanted to live my own life. That's what eighteen-year-olds are supposed to do."

"Normal eighteen-year-olds. But you were never a normal eighteen-year-old, and you know that. You've always known that."

"I could have been, if you'd just - "

"No, Sam. You didn't listen to me then. Shut up and listen to me now." His father turns toward him, wearing that familiar expression that says he is completely done with Sam's shit. "You've always been different, and you've always known it. And you didn't do anything about it. Even if I had told you not to get close to anyone, because there's something wrong with you, you wouldn't have listened to me."

 _Oh no, you don't. You don't get to put this back on me._ "We'll never know, will we? Because you didn't fucking tell me!"

Someone perches on the fence next to Sam. He seeks a flash of white out of the corner of his eye, and if he turns his head just a tiny bit to the left, he knows he'll see golden skin and golden hair and a white nightgown soaked in blood. He stares resolutely at the calm, glassy lake, dipping his head a little so his hair curtains his eyes. _Don't look, don't look._ "Dad. I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

"Here's what you're supposed to do, son. Keep after the demon. And let Dean take care of the rest."

He can smell her now, the smell of her favorite perfume mixed with the smell of blood and burnt flesh, and no one should know what that smells like. 

"You shouldn't have asked Dean to do this."

"Why? You don't think he can?"

"Of course he _can."_ Sam hangs his head lower. He hears the low patter of something dripping onto the ground, and looks down to see blood puddling at his feet. Rivulets of blood make their way to the lake, staining the shore crimson. _Don't look._ "But he _won't._ He keeps telling me he won't."

"He will." John nods confidently, his faith in his older son unwavering as always. "You just have to keep working on him. Let him know how important it is. He's not going to let anyone die just because you're tainted. You know he'll come through in the end."

 _But he shouldn't have to._ "You know, I could take care of it myself. Just eat a bullet right now. Wouldn't that solve everything?" The entire lake is blood-red now, dark and sinister under the brilliant sky.

"No," John says emphatically. "You keep hunting that demon. You owe it to your mother. Let Dean decide what needs to be done about you. That's why I told him, not you. You hear me, Sam?"

"Sam. Sam." Something's poking at his left arm. _Don't look. Don't look._

But he can't help it. He looks. He looks and she's wrapped in a white shroud, like Dad was. He looks and watches her burst into flame, a bright halo of fire consuming the linen that covers her beautiful face. "You'll burn like I did," she says. "No, not like I did. _You_ won't be alive when you burn." She laughs and reaches for him, a flaming arm escaping the crumbling, burning shroud. "I'll see you soon, baby."

 _I'm sorry, I'm so sorry._ Sam pushes away from the fence, away from his dead father and his dead girlfriend and the dark bloody lake.

"Shouldn't have looked, Sam," his father says. "She'd still be alive if you hadn't ever looked at her."

Something is still poking his arm. "Sam. _Sam._ Come on, man. Wake up."

He opens his eyes and he's back in the too-warm car, still cruising down a cold dark highway. 

_Oh, fuck me._

He groans and rubs his eyes. The warmth of the car is too much like heat radiating from flames, and it brings back the sense memory, the bitter smell of smoke and burnt hair and singed flesh. He leans his head against the cool window, avoiding the concerned look he knows Dean's giving him.

"You okay?"

_I'm a hand grenade._

"Peachy."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Nope. Air, dude. I need some air." He rolls down his window and leans into the rush of cold air, waiting for it to wash the dream away.

"Fine!" Dean scowls. "I'll turn down the heat if you'll stop sticking your head out the window like a damn dog." He flicks the heat control and Sam sags back into his seat. "You sure you don't want to talk about it?"

"Very sure." Sam runs a hand through his hair. "All I want to do is salt and burn this grave and stop any more people from dying."

Dean turns and smiles at him. "Luckily, that's one thing we're pretty damn good at."

///

The cemetery is small and poorly lit; two factors in their favor. A single sodium light weakly illuminates the parking lot. Gwen Gilchrist's grave is over the crest of a small hill, hidden from the main road and the light of the parking lot, which is even better. The gravesite is fresh enough that it doesn't have a full cover of grass, which makes for easy digging. Everything is in their favor so far. It only makes Sam wonder what's coming.

Dean helps Sam dig until the hole is too deep to see out of easily; then he hops out to stand guard while Sam finishes digging. When he's cleared off enough dirt to reveal the coffin, still whole and polished, he knows they're thinking the same thing: she hasn't been dead very long. Not nearly long enough to be reduced to bones. He stops and rubs his wrist mindlessly - it's still a little sore, a week after Dean sawed through the cast with a hunting knife. 

"Come on, Sam," Dean grumbles, peering down into the hole. "She's not getting any deader." With a sigh, Sam works the tip of the shovel under the coffin lid, trying to pry it open, but it's sealed tight. After a few fruitless minutes he gives up and slams the shovel into the top of the coffin, splintering the section right above her heart. He works methodically, exposing her torso, her legs, and finally her face, before he tosses the shovel up onto the grass.

"You know, I got this if you need a break," Dean says, extending a hand to help haul Sam out of the grave. "I mean, if your arm hurts. I don't think anything's happening here. If she was pissed at us, she'd have your head by now." Sam's not fooled. Dean wasn't in the habit of cutting him slack just because his arm was in a cast, and he knows why he's making the offer now. This is something he's been doing lately, when he judges Sam vulnerable. Not making him watch people burn. Not when they still look like people, anyway. And he appreciates the thought, really he does, but it's not like it makes a difference. It's not like he stops thinking about Jess until he's reminded by someone else's flaming corpse. It's not like Miss Gwen's ever going to be the one he sees burning on the ceiling in his sleep.

"I'm good," he replies. He pours a carton of salt into the grave as Dean thumbs open the lighter fluid and empties it over the shattered coffin. "Remember what Dad always said. As soon as you think you don't need a lookout, that's when you find out how bad you need one." 

Dean nods silently and lights a match. His face is lit with gold for a moment as he sets the entire pack ablaze; then the flaming pack cartwheels gracefully onto Miss Gwen's mortal remains. Sam watches her burn and wonders if Dean's thinking about other things Dad said.

Even doused with a quart of lighter fluid, it takes Miss Gwen almost an hour to burn to the point where they're comfortable covering her back up again. Dean stands as close to the warmth of fire as possible, as if the smell of formaldehyde-preserved flesh burning doesn't bother him. And maybe it doesn't. Sam's not entirely sure he's got a handle on what bothers Dean any more. They shovel the dirt back into the grave, gather their shovels and duffle bag, and head back to the parking lot. 

When they top the hill, Dean stops dead in his tracks. "Shit."

There's another car in the small parking lot, just a few yards from the Impala. "Shit," Dean mutters again. He takes a few steps back, into the shadows. "Windows are fogged up," he says. "It's probably just teenagers making out."

"Yeah, but even teenagers making out could have seen our fire from here."

"Maybe. If they came up for breath." Dean looks around, scanning the area, assessing the situation. "Okay." He gestures with his shovel. "We're gonna go the long way around, stay out of the light, drop our stuff off over there, by the side of the road. You're gonna stay there and wait, and I'll come back with the car and pick you up."

"Why me?"

"Cause if anybody has to explain to a cop why he's standing in front of a cemetery with a couple of shovels and a duffle bag full of lighter fluid empties, I want it to be you, not me." Dean grins at Sam, hoists his load again, and leads the way, tracing a path well outside of the dim pool of light. He leaves Sam at the main road, trotting silently into the shadows, and a few minutes later Sam hears the Impala's engine rumbling toward him.

"Think they saw you?" he asks as he slips into the passenger seat.

"Dunno." Dean shrugs. "Wasn't trying to be stealthy at that point. Didn't want to look suspicious. I figure, if they did notice me, they'd assume I was there for the same reason they were."

Sam reaches for his phone and opens the police scanner app. "Probably ought to keep an ear to the ground anyway."

"Whatever. We're gonna be out of here before they can find us, anyway. Let's get showered and catch a little sleep so we can get out of here before checkout."

The words almost leave Sam's lips. _No. Wait. I'm not sure we've actually fixed anything yet._ But he thinks better of it, and remains quiet on the way back to the hotel. Quiet and awake.


	8. They're trying to come back, all my senses push

_[ 8. They're trying to come back, all my senses push ]_

Dean lets Sam have the first shower. Partly because he's an awesome big brother, and partly because he's finally warm (nothing like a nice, easy salt and burn to get your blood pumping) and he isn't looking forward to stripping in the chilly bathroom. Might as well let Sam get it warm and steamy for him.

But mostly because he's an awesome big brother.

And okay, partly because Sam was quiet on the way back from the cemetery and he's obviously working up the courage to talk about you-know-what again. Because he knows an easy, successful hunt puts Dean in a good mood, and he's figured out he made a tactical error by trying to talk about something so completely fucking awful right after Cheryl Kramer's interview, and if Dean knows one thing about Sam, it's that he never gives up. So he knows, he fucking _knows_ the little shit is going to bring it up again. And that's why he plans to take a long damn shower and, with any luck, Sam will be asleep when he gets out.

But when Sam comes out of the bathroom, in sweatpants and a t-shirt that's rapidly darkening from his still-dripping hair, he parks at the small table with his laptop.

"Dude. It's late, and checkout's at noon. Go to bed."

Sam doesn't even look up. "I want to listen to the police scanner a little bit longer. Just in case."

So much for Dean's luck. "Paranoid much? No one reported us. We would have heard it by now."

"And also." Sam clears his throat. "I'm not sure we should leave yet."

Dean sighs and rubs his face. His hand reeks of smoke and lighter fluid (and maybe scorched Miss Gwen, but he doesn't like to think about that) and he really wants a shower. "What, you planning on making a vacation out of this? Visit the Grand Ole Opry? If you're worried about witnesses, don't you think we should hit the road?"

"I'm just saying." He won't even look at Dean. "I mean, yeah, it could have been her. It was probably her. But we didn't really look at other options."

Well, shit. "You got a long list of other options you didn't tell me about?" Dean pulls off his shirt and hurls it at the pile of dirty laundry in the corner of the room. 

"No." Sam is displaying all of his typical indecisive tells - chewing his lip, running a hand anxiously through his hair. "I don't know. Probably not. It was probably her." 

"It's over, Sam," Dean mutters as he stomps into the bathroom. "The job is fucking over. We ganked the ghost. Just drop it." _Drop it and let me get out of here._

The bathroom is warm and steamy and the water's still hot, and this is good. This is one good thing he gets to have. But he has barely scrubbed off the stench before Sam knocks and then pokes his head in the door.

"Dean! Hurry up and get out of the shower. Something happened."

"Fuck. Someone saw us?"

"No. I'll tell you when you're out."

Dean groans in frustration, and then spends another ten minutes under the hot water. If no one's on their tail, he's not going to rush his shower just to make Sam happy. By the time he opens the bathroom door and steps back into the chilly room accompanied by a cloud of steam, Sam is... _crap._ Sam is halfway into his Fed suit, white shirt hanging open as he stands at the table, pecking at the laptop.

"Dude," he says, clearly agitated. He beckons Dean to the table and turns the laptop toward him. "This is Laura Lightner. She was just murdered, like, less than an hour ago. I heard the chatter on the police scanner."

Sam has pulled up Laura Lightner's website, which shows a pretty blonde... singer, Dean reads. A country singer. "Well, that's a damn shame. Now explain to me why it's worth dragging me out of the shower."

Sam reaches over and scrolls down the page. "This is her band. Look at this guy. It's Randall Montrose."

"Randall Montrose. As in..."

"As in Darius and Belinda Montrose, yeah. Their son. I saw her picture at their house yesterday, and I knew she looked familiar, but I couldn't think of her name until I heard it on the scanner. But check this out. The Montrose's son plays guitar in her band. And now she's dead."

And now Dean sees where this is heading. "Come on, Sam. That's gotta be a coincidence."

"Does it?" Sam paces back and forth as he buttons his shirt. "The murderer was still on the scene, Dean. He's the one who called the police. Just like Montrose and Kramer."

"That still doesn't mean anything. What's her connection to the church?"

"I don't know," Sam admits. 

"So, you're just guessing her death might be related to the others."

"Listen." Sam stops pacing and turns toward Dean, all earnest expression and puppy dog eyes. "You were willing to believe me when I thought Gwen Gilchrist might be the cause of these deaths. I need you to be willing to believe me now."

"But Sam, what is there to believe? You don't have anything."

"Laura Lightner's bio says she's known Randall Montrose since they were teenagers. Maybe she went to their church. Maybe she sang in the choir."

"Okay, but if that's the connection..." Dean trails off, because he doesn't like where this is going.

"Yeah. If that's the connection, if it's got something to do with the church, then either Gwen Gilchrist was tied to something other than her body... or it wasn't her at all." 

Dean considers his options. He could go along with Sam's theory, spend more time in godforsaken Nashville, stuck on this already-finished job that keeps reminding him of things he's trying not to think about. Or he could pull rank, tell Sam they're done, and listen to him bitch and moan about it for days. 

There is, of course, the slim chance that Sam is actually right.

But mostly, there is the very good chance that if Sam doesn't have this job to distract him, he's going to go back to his new favorite topic of discussion.

_Shit._

He sighs and reluctantly reaches for his suit. "You have an address, I hope."

"Got it off the scanner," Sam says, scooping the keys off the table. "I'll go warm the car up for you." He smiles, warm and appreciative and completely oblivious to Dean's true motives, and Dean suddenly doesn't feel like such an awesome big brother any more.

///

They're blocked at the gate but they slip in easily thanks to Sam, who spins their _most boring research assignment ever_ story a little harder, oozing boyish little brother charm that just makes you want to be nice to him; all perfect smile and sincere eyes and _this might be part of our pattern or it might not,_ and _sure would be nice if we could deal with it while we're here,_ and _this way we won't have to call you and ask questions later,_ and god _damn,_ the boy can bullshit. Dean doesn't remember him being that good at it before he left, but then again, they never really used him for that kind of stuff. Not like you're gonna stick an 18-year-old kid in those situations and expect people to fall for it. So when did he pick it up? Did he hone his skills at Stanford? Did he find it necessary to bullshit his way through that life as thoroughly as he does this one? Did trying to escape the family business actually made him better at it?

Laura Lightner's house was warm and inviting at one time, but now it's a beautiful, rustic abattoir. It probably smelled like gardenias or lavender or something girly a few hours ago, but now it reeks of blood and gunpowder. Overstuffed leather sofas and a huge stone fireplace are eclipsed by the dark spots of drying blood pooled across expensive rugs. Blue sheets are draped over two bodies; one in the center of the room and another in the corner. Dean eyes the second body and gives Sam a questioning look - he only mentioned Laura Lightner, not a second victim. Sam shrugs.

They flash their badges at the guy in charge, who introduces himself as Detective Wilburton. Sam starts his story again but Wilburton waves it aside. "Bill radioed me," he drawls. "You're okay. Just be quick about it, and don't touch anything, okay?"

Sam goes down on one knee next to the body, lifting the sheet with his pencil. His eyebrows shoot up and his forehead furrows in that way that means he's found something disturbing. But when he looks up at Dean, he shakes his head briefly. _You don't need to come over here. I've got it._

Dean watches him for a minute, then turns back to the detective. "So, who's the other vic?"

"Not a vic. That's the guy that killed her."

"That's your theory, or..."

"Don't need a theory. Got a confession." Wilburton grimaces. "Son of a bitch gutted her, called to tell us he killed her, and then, when we got here, told us his fucking sob story and then yanked a gun out of his jacket and made a move on Andrews over there." He tips his head toward a uniformed officer at the other end of the room, clearly distressed, giving his own interview. "Suicide by cop."

"Shit."

"Damn straight. Those fuckers are the worst. Standing there holding his own goddamn gun and he couldn't do it. If you can't live with whatever kinda monster you've turned into, take care of it your own damn self. Don't make a cop do it. Am I right?"

Dean's breath catches because no, that's not right at all, and suddenly Sam's right there and _please god, don't let him have heard that, don't give him any ideas. Don't take care of it your own damn self, Sam. Please._

But if Sam heard what Wilburton said, he doesn't break character. He just asks "Who is he? Do you know?"

The detective scowls at the blue-draped shape on the bloody floor. "Bud Phillips. Her bodyguard. You gotta appreciate the irony, I guess."

"And he called the police on himself," Sam says, as he scribbles the name in his notebook.

"Yep. According to dispatch, he said he woke up and she was dead, and he was holding the knife. When our guys got here, he told them he knew he must have done it, but he didn't remember any of it." Sam raises his eyebrows at Dean and yeah, yeah, okay. That's a familiar story. Goddammit.

"So then," Wilburton continues, "he started bawling. Said he couldn't believe he killed her, he didn't deserve to live, blah blah blah. Andrews tried to talk him down, and he whipped a gun out of his jacket, but he didn't point it at himself, he pointed it at Andrews. So the kid had to take him out." Wilburton tips his head toward Andrews again. "Don't know if you've ever had to take someone out in the line of duty, but it messes a fella up."

"It does," Dean agrees. _(You have no idea.)_

Wilburton flashes a sympathetic look at poor messed-up Andrews and turns back to Dean. "Now, tell me this. Guy had a Glock in his pocket. So why did he take the girl out with a knife? From her own kitchen?"

Sam's brow furrows again. "Her own knife?"

"Looks like it. Matches the set in the kitchen." He shrugs and looks around. "Crazy. Look, you guys got what you're looking for? I need to go take care of business."

"Yes, thank you," Sam says, digging in his pocket for a card. "Would it be possible to get a copy of your report when it's available? Here's my email address."

"Sure thing, kid." Wilburton pockets the card, and Sam watches to make sure he's out of hearing range before turning back to Dean.

"So, get this. He didn't just kill her. He tied her up and then sliced her wide open. Why would he do that? He had his own gun. Why would he go to all the trouble of getting a knife from the kitchen and tying her up, when he could just shoot her?"

Dean remembers what Wilburton said. _Gutted her._ "Because it wasn't just about her being dead."

"Right. Like Belinda Montrose. Ritualistic, or something."

"So, what do you want to do now?"

"I want to find out if she was connected to the church," Sam says, failing to suppress a yawn. "We should talk to her manager or somebody."

"Okay, but it's too early to call people yet," Dean points out, gesturing at the dark purple sky through Laura Lightner's massive, probably very expensive windows. The dark shadows under Sam's eyes almost match the sky, and Dean knows Sam won't call a break for himself, but he'll stop if Dean needs it. "I'm about to fall over, man. Let's try to get a couple hours of sleep."

Sam presses his lips together like he's trying to come up with an argument, then shrugs. "Okay. Couple hours."

///

Sam's sleep comes in short restless bursts, something that can't be ignored since he also wakes Dean every time he gasps his way out of a nightmare. Finally, as the sky begins to lighten to a cold, pale gray dawn, he falls into a deeper sleep. Dean quietly switches off the alarm on the cheap clock/radio, checks Sam's phone and turns that alarm off as well _(double alarm, Sammy? really?),_ and settles in.

Suddenly he's awakened, not by Sam muttering and thrashing, but by a hard smack on his arm. His fingers are already wrapped around the knife under his pillow when he hears his brother's very angry voice.

"Dammit, Dean! It's two in the afternoon!"

"Good." Dean releases the knife and rubs his face. "You slept."

"Yeah, I slept all right. I slept the whole damn day away." Sam's pacing, practically trembling with furious energy. "You turned my alarm off? You turned _both_ alarms off? Why would you do that?"

"Cause you needed to sleep, man. _We_ needed to sleep."

"Dean, people are dying. Don't you think stopping that is more important right now?"

"Wait, come on, Sam."

"Shit, Dean. Laura Lightner is dead because we didn't take care of it. How many more deaths are you willing to have on your hands? Because I've fucking had enough!"

"Dude." Dean puts up a hand. Sam is going completely off the rails, which is Dean's cue to stay calm. "Stop. Listen. Did you have any other ideas, other than the choir director? Is there anyone you decided not to salt and burn because we focused on her?"

Sam's anxious pacing fizzles and he slumps onto the bed. "No."

"All right. So, we didn't ignore any other clues. We didn't sleep through anything we should have been doing. We're doing all we can do, all right? But you gotta sleep, man. I'm worried about you."

"This isn't about me."

"Fine, but you can't save anyone if you're running on fumes. Look. It's not on your hands, what happened to Laura. It's awful, but it's not your fault. We didn't know. We couldn't have stopped it."

Sam stares silently at the floor for a minute. When he looks up, his face is twisted into a sad mockery of a smile. "You know, there's a difference between _not your fault_ and _couldn't have stopped it._ They're not the same thing." He quickly slips on jeans and boots, pulls a jacket over the t-shirt he slept in, and puts his phone in his pocket. "I'm going to make some calls. Find someone to talk to about Laura and Bud Phillips. I'll bring you some coffee." The door shuts almost silently behind him, leaving Dean to wonder what the fuck just happened.


	9. Untie the weight bags, I never thought I could

_[ 9. Untie the weight bags, I never thought I could ]_

Sam walks. He wants to run, wants to run for an hour and get into that zone where he's not thinking about anything, not feeling anything, just listening to the slap of his feet against pavement and the sound of his own breathing. But he's already wasted too much time. He doesn't have an hour to spare. So he walks around the block a couple of times to clear his head, which is kind of joke, because nothing ever clears out, it just gets pushed aside to be dealt with later. Okay, he wasted several hours. Nothing he can do about that now. Set it aside and move forward; concentrate on solving this case. Make sure no one else dies. He finds a quiet coffee shop where he can sit and make some calls, then gets a couple of coffees to go - a big one for Dean, an even bigger one for himself - and heads back to the motel.

_Just do this. Just finish this._

Dean's sitting at the computer, his hair damp from showering. He peers up at Sam with a tentative smile. _We cool?_

Sam returns it, because that's the only way they can move forward. _Yeah, we're cool._ He sets Dean's coffee on the table.

Dean sniffs at the cup and looks expectantly at Sam. "No breakfast?"

"It's three o'clock."

"No lunch?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Get suited up, man. We're going downtown. We can get some barbecue after."

Dean's mock pout turns into a real grin. "Good idea."

///

Showered and suited, Sam slips into the passenger seat and plugs the address into his phone. 

"So," Dean says, "this chick we're talking to..."

"Chrissy Whitlow," Sam replies, relieved to jump back into the case. "Laura Lightner's publicist."

"I thought we were trying to find out about the bodyguard? You couldn't find anyone who knows him?"

"Well, according to everyone I talked to, Chrissy Whitlow knows everything and everybody. I think if there's anything to know, she knows it."

"Awesome. Let's hope she's in a talking mood."

///

Chrissy Whitlow's chipper assistant deposits them in her office with tall glasses of iced tea. When Whitlow herself breezes into the office, Sam jumps to his feet and nudges Dean to do the same. She's one of those women who could be sixty or forty or anywhere in between, with a trim figure and flawlessly made-up face. A Bluetooth device nestles on her ear under her perfectly tousled, artfully colored blonde hair. "Normally we could chat out on the patio," she says, nodding at a set of French doors behind them, "but it's just so cold! Did you Yankee boys bring the cold down with you?"

Sam politely drinks his tea, hiding a quick smirk as Dean sips at his own and grimaces at the syrupy sweetness. "Sorry about that, ma'am," he smiles. "Maybe we can get this case wrapped up soon, and take it back up north with us."

Dean rolls his eyes, clearly done with Sam's attempt to get into the woman's good graces. "Miss Whitlow," he says, all business, "What can you tell us about Bud Phillips?"

"Oh, Bud!" She lays a hand dramatically on her chest. "Good night! It just doesn't make any sense. I wouldn't believe it if he hadn't confessed. Bud was crazy about Laura."

"Crazy about her?" Sam asks. "You think he could have been jealous?"

"Oh no. It wasn't romantic at all. They've been dear friends for years, but that's all." She leans in, conspiratorily. "Bud liked _men._ Not that I care, you know? But it was sad, because Bud's people were always so religious, and they never could accept it."

"What about Laura? Did she go to church? She didn't happen to go to Bethel Pentecostal Church, did she?"

"Goodness, no," she laughs. "The truth is, she was a wedding-and-funeral kind of girl. Never stepped foot in a church unless she had to. It's not something we talk about, you know." She rolls her eyes. "In this town, if you want to get anywhere, you've got to be all about God and country. But no, Laura didn't have anything for church."

"So she wouldn't have sung in the church choir..." Dean raises his eyebrows almost imperceptibly, and Sam nods. There goes the angry choir director theory. Either Laura Lightner's death is unrelated to the Montrose and Kramer killings, or they weren't caused by dear old salted-and-crispy Miss Gwen after all. _Dammit._ They've wasted so much time. How many more people are going to die because he can't figure this one out?

"No, she never sang in a church choir," Chrissy answers. "And if she did, it certainly wouldn't be _that_ church. She was there for the funeral, of course. But she wouldn't attend there regularly."

Dean perks up. "The funeral? Do you mean Belinda Montrose's funeral?"

"Yes, that's right. Randy's mother. The guitar player in her band." She leans in again, lowering her voice. "Randy's daddy killed his mama. So sad. Mercy killing, they say. On account of her cancer. But you just never know about people, do you?"

"No, ma'am," Sam smiles. "You never do. But what is it about that church? You seem to think she'd have something against Bethel in particular."

 _"Pentecostals."_ She shudders dramatically. "Bethel tries to be all high-class and uppity, but they're just a bunch of snake-handling, speaking-in-tongues Pentecostals. And if that weren't enough - and the good Lord knows it is - the church was founded by a _murderer."_

Sam almost chokes on a sip of tea. "Excuse me? A murderer? Pastor Fleming?"

"The very same." She leans back triumphantly, arms crossed. "I see you've heard of him. Y'all are aware that he claimed to be a faith healer, I assume."

Sam sneaks a look at Dean and catches his quick intake of breath. _Faith healer._ Dean doesn't exactly have a soft spot for faith healers. 

"Well." Chrissy continues. "He started out with simply laying his hands on people. Harmless nonsense," she sniffs. "But people believed in him and his church kept getting bigger. And then... You know how con artists will pretend to be faith healers, and they'll act like they're removing a tumor from some poor old fool's abdomen, but they've really just got chicken parts hidden in their hand?"

"He was one of those?"

"Worse." She looks around, as if worried that spies would infiltrate her carefully-decorated office. "He actually cut a woman open and rooted around inside her, thinking he was pulling out her cancer."

"Jesus," Dean blurts. "That's fu - that's messed up."

"I know!" she nods. "Can you believe it? She died, of course, but they were able to keep it pretty quiet because she was terminal anyway. On her deathbed. Her family didn't want the spectacle. From what I understand, they were embarrassed to be involved in it, and who can blame them? Such nonsense." She exhales disdainfully. "So he was never charged. The whole thing was swept completely under the rug."

"And how do you know about this?" Sam asks. None of his research into the church had revealed anything quite so dark.

"Oh, you know. People talk. Most people nowadays think it's an urban legend. I'm sure no one in that huge fancy church thinks their dear Pastor Fleming could have killed anybody. But the woman who died? My great-aunt Millie knew her people." Chrissy waves a well-manicured hand. "Goodness! I do rattle on! I'm sorry. You didn't come here to listen to old Nashville gossip."

"Well, ma'am," Sam smiles, "it was definitely interesting." And possibly useful. "But we were hoping to find out more about Bud Philips. Can you think of any reason at all why he might have done this? Did he and Laura have a fight?

"No, never. Bud was always very protective of her, like she was his little sister."

"So you knew him pretty well?"

"Oh, yes. I'm close to all of them. Bud, the band. I've met their folks, too. A good publicist learns these things about her clients. The human touch, you know? It helps me come with an angle for their story." 

Sam catches Dean's raised eyebrow again. After their emotional interviews with Darius Montrose and Cheryl Kramer, Chrissy Whitlow's businesslike approach is unsettling. But at least she's a fountain of information. 

"And Bud was so worried about her health," she continues. "I swear, I don't understand why he would up and kill her!"

"Why was he worried about her health?"

"Well, she was diabetic, and she had a hard time controlling it. My aunt Jenny was the same way. _Brittle,_ they used to call it. She was very brittle. That's why she never had children - her doctors said it could have killed her. Of course, that husband of hers was always out tomcatting around, so I imagine he managed to have a child or two, even if she couldn't!"

"I'm sorry," Sam says, confused. "Her husband? Laura's husband?"

"No, sweetie, my aunt Jenny's husband!" Chrissy pats Sam's arm familiarly. "Oh, goodness, I'm just rattling on again. You boys must be bored to tears. No, Laura wasn't married. She had a boyfriend, but he up and left her a month or so ago. But that's a whole 'nother story!" She pauses for an extravagant sigh and a sip of tea. "Poor Bud, he was heartbroken for her. Bud's mama died of diabetes, you know, so he was extra concerned about Laura, bless his heart. He was always hovering around her, carrying her supplies, asking when she last ate, making sure she tested. She thought it was sweet, but personally, I thought it was a little much."

So, Bud Phillips, loving and caring friend to Laura Lightner, gouges her open with a kitchen knife. Dean may disagree, since Dean is being unreasonably obtuse about this case, but she fits the pattern. 

He glances at Dean, who gives him a subtle nod. "That's all the questions we have for today, ma'am. Here's my card." He pulls out a business card, checking to make sure it's the right one - who is he today? Osbourne? That's the one. "If you think of anything else, please give me a call."


	10. Steady feet don't fail me now, I'mma run till you can't walk

_[ 10. Steady feet don't fail me now, I'mma run till you can't walk ]_

Sam may pick restaurants based on the availability of vegetables and free wifi, but Dean picks a barbecue place based on two things - the number of trucks in the parking lot, and the presence of a screen door. "Trust me, Sammy," he says. "The two most important indicators of a quality barbecue joint." He's right, of course; the food is stellar, and he plows through a plateful of ribs while Sam daintily - in comparison, anyway - eats something that requires a fork.

"So," Dean says, picking the meat off his last rib. "It's not Miss Gwen after all. Unless Lightner's not one of them." He gestures toward Sam. "Which is still a possibility, you have to admit."

"Dude," Sam smiles. "You realize you're literally waving a rib at me while you talk about a woman who was split from pelvis to sternum."

Sam's in a better mood, considering how pissed off he was when Dean let him sleep. And maybe it just proves Dean was right, and he did need the rest. Or maybe he's trying to throw him off-guard. Either way, Dean's going to appreciate it while it lasts. "If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen." He grins and drains the last of his beer. "What do you think? Different pissed-off ghost? Someone the faith healer couldn't heal? Maybe that last cancer patient?"

"Maybe," says Sam. He catches their waitress's eye and holds up two fingers and his still half-full bottle of beer, and that's... uncharacteristic. 

"Uh, Sam? You trying to get me drunk?"

Sam shrugs. "Nothing you've ever complained about before." The waitress appears with two fresh bottles and whisks Dean's empty away. And he's _not_ complaining, really he's not. After everything that's happened, nothing sounds more appealing than simply having a drink _(or two or three or four)_ with his brother and forgetting it all for a while.

On the other hand, the last time Sam got drunk, he made Dean promise to kill him. So. Maybe not so appealing after all.

"I guess you and Dad used to drink together more than we do," Sam says. He's speaking kind of slowly, as if he's choosing his words carefully. Dad's still a minefield.

"Yeah, I guess." Dean takes a long draw and tries to decide whether he wants to reminisce.

"Dean... what did Dad say at the end, exactly?"

Um, no. Dean does not want to reminisce at all. "I told you what he said."

"No, you really didn't. You told me the gist of it, but what exactly did he say?"

"Exactly? Why the fuck you wanna know _exactly_ what he said?"

"Dammit, Dean -"

"Drop it, Sam," Dean warns him. 

But of course Sam can't let it go; he's like a dog on a goddamn bone. "He was my father too. You don't think I should know what his last words were? Especially since they were about me?"

"And is that gonna make it any better? Knowing the words? I mean, he told me that if I couldn't save you, from whatever it was that I have to save you from, that I was gonna have to take you out. Like putting down a rabid dog. Is there a _good_ way to say that? Is there some wording he could have used that's gonna make that okay?"

Sam stares at his beer bottle for a minute and begins peeling off the label. "It's not a bad analogy, you know," he finally says. "A rabid dog."

"Goddammit, Sam."

"No, really," he continues, still focused on his bottle. "I mean, a dog gets rabies. It's not the dog's fault. You feel bad for the dog; it doesn't deserve rabies. But you can't let it run around killing people just because it's not the dog's fault, right?" He looks up and meets Dean's eyes. "You've got to put aside your feelings about the dog and just do what has to be done."

"Oh, for fuck's sake! What do you think this is, Old Yeller or something? And you keep ignoring the other half of this. He said I had to save you. If I couldn't save you, that's when I had to... to whatever." Dean tips his beer back, swallowing the last of it. "And I _am_ gonna save you, from whatever it is. So it doesn't matter."

"And you really don't know what it is you're supposed to save me from," Sam says.

"No, Sam, I really don't. You think I'm lying?"

Sam leans back in his chair, silently staring at Dean, his lips pressed together in a thin line. When he finally speaks, his voice is as sharp as shattered glass. "I just think you went pretty quickly from _Dad didn't say anything at the end_ to _Oh yeah, Dad said I might have to kill you._ So maybe you _forgot_ about that part. And maybe you _forgot_ to tell me something else, too."

Fucking Sam. Maybe Dean just couldn't talk about it yet. Maybe he just needed to pretend it didn't happen. Maybe he was trying to convince himself Dad was delusional there at the end, until Sam blew that theory out of the water by being immune to some goddamn mysterious demonic virus. 

Dean's plate of discarded bones stares up at him like a hunter's funeral pyre, cracked and bloody and singed, and he's going to vomit if he has to keep looking at it. He lurches to his feet, pulls out his wallet, and slams some money on the table. "I haven't forgotten anything," he growls. Because the universe will not fucking let him. 

He stomps out of the restaurant, sinks into the Impala, turns the key, and lets the music wash over him. The thing with Dad, with Sam, it's like a broken rib, or a dislocated finger that won't stay popped back into place. It's just a low-grade pain that's there all the goddamn time, and when he manages to forget it for a bit, manages to start living his life again, it sends a jolt down his spine to remind him that it's still there. And shit, he's tired of it. 

After a few minutes, he's hit with a burst of cool air as the door opens and Sam slides into the passenger seat. He's silent for a minute, a minute Dean spends staring at the steering wheel, or his own hands, or anything else but Sam. "It's just... not knowing what could happen," Sam finally says. 

"Listen," Dean groans. "I know, without a doubt, that you are not going to hurt any innocent people. Okay? You're not even capable of it. I know this."

"Yeah, and two years ago you knew, without a doubt, that I wasn't capable of having psychic visions. So, there's that." 

And, well, Dean doesn't really have a response for that. Other than the response he's always given, _it won't happen because I'm not going to let it happen,_ and that doesn't really work any longer, does it?

"It's freaking me out, okay?" Sam continues. "And I know it's freaking you out too."

Yes, it is, it's freaking him the fuck out, but he can't let Sam know that, because it doesn't matter, he's not going to kill his little brother, so there's nothing to freak out about. And even if there was, one of them has to stay sane. And he still can't look at Sam. "You really think I can do that," he says, still staring straight ahead. "Just. Just fucking _murder_ you."

"Not murder," Sam says quietly. "Just putting down a rabid dog. Mercy killing. Euthanasia."

"Hunt you. Like Gordon fucking Walker."

"No, not like Gordon. This is different."

"How?" Dean snaps. "How is it different?"

Sam sighs and rubs his eyes. "Gordon wanted to kill me pre-emptively, before I showed any signs. I'm not asking you to do that. I just need you to watch me. You know me better than anyone, Dean. You'll know if I'm going darkside. And _then_ you'll need to stop me. But not until then."

_"Jesus,_ Sam." That's not any different. Sam still ends up dead.

"And yes, I do think you can do it," Sam says. "Because that's what you do. You save people. And if you need to take me out to save people, I think you can do it."

Dean groans in frustration. "If I _save people,_ can we just assume I'm going to save you? Can we just agree on that, and forget about the rest of it? For now, anyway? Please?"

Sam's quiet for a minute. "Yeah, sure," he mumbles eventually. But he's clearly not ready to drop it altogether, and Dean wonders how long this reprieve will last. 

The drive back to the motel is sullenly silent. Tennessee has been an absolute bust. Dean was hoping for blue skies and warm breezes and maybe even a girl, a long-legged Southern belle with an accent as thick and sweet as honey, to distract him from the shitstorm his life has turned into. And instead it's cold and gray and he just lost half his family and Sam's trying to get him to throw away the other half and this fucking case is a stark reminder of everything he's trying his damnedest not to think about right now.

He's had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach ever since he woke up in the hospital, choking on whatever had been shoved down his throat, something that wasn't just an oxygen tube. He feels like he's been hollowed out; like his father's last words were a dull knife that scraped out his insides, scraped out everything he was supposed to be.

Maybe it's so cold because all of his own goddamn ghosts are following him. 

///

When they get back to the hotel, Sam sits down to find out what he can about Bud Phillips. Dean's too restless to stay in the room, too afraid of what Sam's going to say; he's got to get out. 

"I think I'm going to go check out the church," he says, slipping the EMF reader into his pocket. "See if I find anything." Sam nods, tosses a _be safe_ over his shoulder, and Dean accepts it for the apology that it is.

He takes the pedestrian overpass across the highway, pausing to watch the clueless motorists again. It's dark, and the headlights of the oncoming cars look like pairs of malevolent yellow eyes. He thinks about his brother muttering through his nightmare in the car, and wonders if Sam sees yellow eyes when he dreams about Dad. Or maybe it's just Dean. Like it's just Dean who remembers the feel of the demon hand inside him, burning, squeezing, wringing the life out of him, who wakes up from those dreams patting himself down and checking that the dampness making his shirt stick to his skin is sweat and not blood.

The door to the old church, the office wing, is locked. Dean walks over to the sanctuary building and easily pushes the massive door open. It's softly lit, but he doesn't see anyone inside. He needs to walk around with the EMF meter, but he can't bring himself to take it out of his pocket. He sits on the last pew, mindlessly running his thumb back and forth over the plush red velvet cushion, and tries to think about the job. Tries to care.

"Son? Can I help you?" 

The voice is gentle, but in the cavernous quiet of the church, it makes Dean jump. The speaker is an older man in a dark suit, with thinning hair and kind eyes. "I'm sorry," Dean stammers, standing quickly. "I was, ah, I was looking for Pastor Clark. Is he here?"

The man takes a seat in the pew next to Dean and peers at him over his glasses. "He's not, but I'm a pastor here too. Perhaps there's something I can help you with?"

What the hell. This guy's older than Clark; he might know more of the backstory. Dean sits down again. "I'm from the FBI," he says, reaching for his ID. "Agent Rhodes. I was talking to Pastor Clark about the history of the church, and I just had a few more questions. But maybe you can answer them, Pastor..."

He waits for the pastor to fill in the blank with his name, but when he looks up, he's thrown by the man's kind but freakishly intense stare. He doesn't show any interest in Dean's fake ID, but just pins him down with his steady gaze and says "The history of the church? Is that really the question you want answered?"

Huh.

Actually, no, it's not.

Actually, the question Dean really wants answered is _what the fuck is going on with my little brother? What am I supposed to save him from, and how am I going to do it?_

"Son," the pastor says softly. "There's someone very important to you. Someone who needs help."

"Yes." _Yes, oh god, yes. Someone I have to save but I can't, I don't know how._

"How can I help you? Who is it that you're trying to save?"

Without hesitation, Dean says "My brother. Help me save my brother."

The man smiles. "But Dean," he says, "you already know how to save him."

And suddenly he realizes this kind old man is right. Dean knows exactly what is wrong with Sam, and he knows how to fix it.

The dark cloud of worry and fear that's been following him for months, ever since Dad whispered in his ear, begins to lift. It's going to be okay. Sam is going to be okay. Dean laughs with joy and relief. It's hard to believe the answer has eluded him for so long - it's so beautifully simple.


	11. Something pulls my focus out and I'm standing down

_[ 11. Something pulls my focus out and I'm standing down ]_

It takes Sam about twenty minutes to crack into the Nashville medical examiner's database. He's surprised Laura Lightner's preliminary autopsy report is actually ready, not even 24 hours after her death, but presumably she got the celebrity special treatment. The report uses cold, clinical language to describe a gruesome scene. Ligature marks on her wrists and ankles. A 12-inch wound gouged into her abdomen and stretched open, internal organs shoved aside. Why go to all that trouble, Sam wonders again. This isn't how you murder someone. This is something else. And then...

_Fetus, approximately 12 weeks gestation, partially removed from the uterus._

What?

Oh, _shit._ Laura was pregnant. And Bud Phillips tried to cut the baby out of her.

With a shudder, Sam opens a new tab and searches for images of Laura Lightner and Bud Phillips. He finds what he's looking for quickly - apparently Belinda Montrose's funeral was well-covered by paparazzi, both professional and amateur. There's Laura, with her bodyguard, entering Bethel Pentecostal Church. There's Bud, apparently on his way out, shaking Pastor Clark's hand on the huge steps. All of the killers were at the church right before the killings took place. The common denominator isn't just the victims, it's the killers.

The victims were all sick, in one way or another. What did the killers have in common, other than being at the church? They didn't appear to have any incentive to harm the people they killed. In fact, they all had reasons to be protective of them.

Suddenly something clicks into place. He grabs his phone, flicks through the recently dialed numbers, and stops on Chrissy Whitlow. 

"Hello, Ms. Whitlow, this is Agent Osbourne again. I hope I'm not bothering you at a bad time. I just have one more question, and I know it's going to sound odd. Randall Montrose's mother had cancer, right? Well, you seem to be pretty close to the family." _(Actually, you seem to be a gossipy busybody, which is probably why Laura didn't tell you she was pregnant.)_ "Do you happen to know what type of cancer she had? Where it started?"

"Oh, yes!" she exclaims, sounding excited to have information worth sharing. "It was all up in her spine and her brain, but it started in her throat. Esophageal cancer."

And her loving husband carved up her throat. Butchered it. Like he was trying to cut something out of her.

"Thank you, Ms. Whitlow. That's very helpful. You have a nice evening."

Sam clicks his phone shut. Paul Kramer had a monstrous disease lurking in his brain, and his mother smashed his skull. Laura Lightner had a high-risk pregnancy, a fetus inside her belly that could kill her, and her close friend and protector tried to rip it out of her. And Darius Montrose carved up his beloved wife's throat, right where her cancer started. 

He's pretty sure he knows what's going on, and he's got a theory about what's behind it. And he really, really needs to talk to Dean. He jumps when the phone buzzes in his hand. "Dean? I was just about to call you. Are you still at the church?"

"Yeah," Dean replies. "You need to come over here."

"What did you find?"

"I don't want to try to explain it over the phone. Just get over here. I'm in the main part."

"What, the sanctuary?"

"I don't know, Sam." Dean sounds annoyed. "The part where the people sit. With the stage."

Sam laughs. "That's the sanctuary. I'll see you in a minute. I found something too. I think I know what's going on.

"Tell me when you get here."

///

Sam takes the steps of the pedestrian bridge two at a time. From the top of the bridge, he can see that the office wing of the church is dark and the parking lot is deserted. The huge sanctuary is lit from within, its stained glass windows glowing softly. The ornate wooden door is open just a crack. He slips inside and pulls the door closed behind him. Dean is at the front, leaning against the carved communion table.

"Hey," Sam says as he trots up the aisle. The word echoes in the vast empty sanctuary, and he lowers his voice. "I think I figured out the commonality. Laura Lightner was pregnant. She would have been really high risk, with her diabetes so out of control."

"Huh," Dean says. "Come up here."

Sam mounts the steps, feeling vaguely uneasy for some reason. Maybe because it seems inappropriate for him to be up here, or maybe because Dean seems... off.

"Bud tried to cut the fetus out of her," he continues. "And Belinda Montrose's cancer -"

"C'mere, Sam," Dean interrupts, waving him closer. "Stand right here. I want to show you something." 

Dean steps aside and Sam takes his place, with his back against the massive communion table. "What am I looking at?" he asks.

But all he sees is Dean's fist.


	12. Yeah I know that everyone gets scared, but I've become what I can't be

_[ 12. Yeah I know that everyone gets scared, but I've become what I can't be ]_

Sam's unconscious body slumps backward onto the huge communion table, just as Dean planned. He quickly pulls him all the way onto it - or as close as he can get; those stupidly long legs are still dangling a little off the edge, but it will be okay - and works his coat and suit jacket off. He ties Sam's wrists and ankles to the carved legs, and loops another rope around his neck; not enough to choke him, just enough to keep him still. Sam really, really needs to hold still for this. He's barely finished before he hears Sam's awakening moan, and he moves into his line of vision. "Hey, Sammy," he says, as his brother begins to jerk at the ropes. "Don't panic. It's okay."

"What the fuck, Dean?" Sam blinks at him, confused. "What happened?"

"I'm sorry, man," Dean says. And he _is_ sorry. He hates having to knock him out, tie him down, frighten him. But he instinctively knows Sam won't go along with his plan, that he'll fight him every step of the way. And in the long run, this is for his own good. "Don't worry. This won't take long."

"What won't take long?" Sam's voice rises in panic. "What are you doing?"

Dean wishes Sam could feel his joy. "I'm saving you. I know what's wrong with you, and I know how to fix it."

Sam doesn't believe it. He doesn't understand. He struggles as Dean unbuttons his shirt. "Please, Dean. You don't know what you're doing. This isn't you. You've got to get control. This isn't you, Dean!"

Dean nods and tries to sound reassuring. "It's okay, Sammy. I know you're scared, but it will only hurt for a little bit, and then you'll be fixed." 

Sam's eyes widen when Dean takes out the knife; he flinches as Dean slides it beneath his undershirt and slices it open. "What are you going to do?" he says. "How are you going to fix me?"

Sam looks terrified - pale and trembling, straining against the rope at his throat, struggling to free his bound wrists and ankles - and it breaks Dean's heart. He wishes he could make him understand how important this is. But in the end, he doesn't have to understand. After all, you don't explain to a baby why he's getting a measles shot. You just do it. It hurts a little bit, and then he's okay, and he's protected. Safe. And that's what Dean does. He keeps Sam safe. 

"Don't worry," he says, trying to keep his voice calm and soothing. But it's so hard to stay calm; his pulse races with the exhilaration of saving Sam. "Whatever this curse is? The thing Dad was worried about? I know how to get rid of it. I'm just going to cut it out of your heart. It's so simple, man. I don't know why I didn't think of it before." 

Sam swallows hard and stares into Dean's eyes as if he's trying to reach someone behind them. "Cut out my heart? That will kill me, Dean," he says calmly. "Do you understand that? If you cut out my heart, I'll die. I know you're in there somewhere, Dean. I know you don't want to kill me. Please don't do this." 

Dean laughs. "I'm not cutting out your heart, genius. I'm cutting something _out of_ your heart. There's a curse in there and I have to get it out." Poor Sam. He really doesn't get it. But that's okay; it will be over soon and he'll be healed. Clean. Dean positions the knife over Sam's chest. He pictures a dark, cold spot in Sam's heart, like a tumor that needs to be removed. He visualizes the muscle he'll have to cut through, the rib he'll have to break, to get to it. He places his left palm on Sam's chest and spreads his thumb and forefinger, planning where to make his cut.

"Dammit, Dean! I know you're in there! Stop this! Please, Dean!"

"Shhh, Sammy." He's fighting it so hard, he's rubbed his wrists raw and bloody, and his breathing is ragged against the rope at his throat. "It's okay. I'll do it so quick; you won't feel a thing."

Suddenly Sam's eyes widen with understanding. "No, Dean. Don't do it fast. Do it slow. Do it as slow as you can. _Please."_

"Slow?" Dean is relieved Sam isn't fighting, but he's confused. "Slow will hurt. Why do you want me to do it slow?"

"I just do. Please. It's very important to me. I'll stop fighting if you promise to do it as slowly as possible, okay?" Sam's eyes are pleading; Dean can't say no to him. He nods, and slowly draws the blade through the skin, making a long, shallow cut over Sam's heart. Blood wells up and drips down the side of Sam's chest. He grimaces; his whole body stiffens. "Are you watching, Dean?" he says through clenched teeth. "Are you paying attention? Are you looking at it?"

Dean laughs. "Of course I'm watching. You think I can find your heart with my eyes closed?" He pushes the knife back into the cut, working it deeper. Slowly, because Sam asked. More blood wells out of the cut, pooling in the hollow of Sam's throat, dripping over the side of the communion table, spattering onto Dean's shoes. The blood makes Dean uncomfortable. Something pricks at the edge of his consciousness. He reminds himself of the curse, a dark stowaway in Sam's heart. Get rid of it. Get it out of Sam.

"Dean," Sam gasps. "Listen. This is important. I need you to know that I understand what's going on, and I know it's not your fault." His voice breaks. "Do you hear me? Do you understand? I know why this is happening, and I don't blame you. Please don't blame yourself." 

Dean stares at Sam in confusion. If he knows what's happening, why does he think Dean would blame himself for anything? Dean is saving him. Dean's going to be the hero.

"No! Don't look at my face!" Sam pleads. "Look at the cut. Look at what you're doing. Look at it, Dean. Concentrate on it. Look at the blood. _Please,_ God, look at the blood."

Dean frowns and goes back to his work, sliding the knife deeper and deeper, exposing a white flash of bone as Sam writhes. _Of course I'm concentrating. I have to concentrate. This is so important. It's the most important thing I've ever done._ There is a roaring in his ears, but he doesn't let it distract him. _I'm going to save Sam, right here and now. Save Sam. Protect Sam. Jesus, look at all the blood. Keep going. It's the only way to save Sam. Save Sam. That's what I do, I save Sam. I protect Sam._ The roaring is louder and louder and it sounds, it sounds familiar, it sounds bad, it sounds like - what? It sounds like Sam, screaming in pain. Screaming in pain and bleeding and fuck, blood is everywhere, _Sam's blood, why is Sam so bloody, I have to save him, save Sam protect Sam and shit, I'm the one hurting him, I'm the one holding the fucking knife and cutting my little brother open, slicing my way down to his fucking heart, and I'm going to kill him and he forgives me because he knows, he knows, oh God, I am trying to cut out part of Sam's heart -_

The knife clatters to the floor. 

"Sam? Sammy?" The roaring _(the screaming, Sam's screaming)_ has stopped. Dean yanks off his shirt and presses it to the wound. 

Sam is calm now, gray and still, eyes clenched tightly shut, quietly murmuring _look at the blood, look at the blood._ His breaths are rapid and shallow, and Dean can feel his heart beating _(oh God his heart why why why?)_ through the bloody shirt. For just a fleeting moment, he almost knows what he was doing. Why he was doing it. It's like a name he can't remember, on the tip of his tongue. Then it's gone, and Dean's standing there, hands slick with his brother's blood, and he has no idea why. 

"Sam?" he croaks. "Jesus, Sam, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I don't know, I don't know, what the fuck, Sam? Can you hear me?" He pats Sam's face with his free hand. "Sam? Sam!"

Sam opens his eyes and gives Dean a weak smile. "Hey," he says quietly. "You're back."

"Oh, God" says Dean, pressing on the bloody shirt with one hand while he fumbles for the knife on the floor with the other. "I don't know what the fuck just happened here." He slices the ropes with a shaking hand. "I don't know why I did that, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I don't know-"

"I do," Sam says, still quietly. So quietly. It's so quiet in here now. "I know why you did it. I know it's not your fault, okay? It's not your fault. Whatever happens, it's not your fault."

"Shut up, Sam. Nothing's gonna happen. I'm getting you to a hospital right now and you're gonna be okay and nothing's gonna happen, you got me? You're gonna be okay."

 

 

Sam's eyelids flutter open and he squints in confusion, then anxiety, as he realizes he's in a hospital. Dean's done this too many times. He's watched Sam do this way too many times. Then Sam recognizes him, gives him a quick once-over to make sure he's alive and well, and closes his eyes again.

"So, uh. Those Satan worshippers you pissed off. I told the cops about them."

Sam nods. Even when he's barely conscious, he understands the importance of matching stories. His eyes slide open again and trace the path of the IV in his forearm.

"Blood," Dean says. "You, ah, you lost some blood. They're just topping you off."

Sam nods again. "We doing a dine-and-dash?" he mumbles.

"Nah, we're here till they kick us out. We're not leaving until I know for sure you're okay." Dean pauses. _Jesus Christ. Nut up, Winchester._ "I have no idea why I did that, Sam. I can't explain it. I can't even begin to explain it."

"It's okay. I know it's not your fault."

"Yeah, so you said. You seemed pretty sure you knew exactly why it happened."

"I think so." Sam's more alert now, though he's not trying to sit up. "I think it was Pastor Fleming, the faith healer. Well, his spirit. I think he takes protective instincts and twists them into overdrive."

"No, wait," Dean stumbles over this information in his head. "That doesn't make any sense. If I was trying to protect you, why did I...?" He can't finish that thought, because the end of it is _try to kill you._

"Remember the woman who had the tumor? And he thought he was ripping it out? All of the victims had something inside them that was harming them. Darius Montrose tried to cut out his wife's cancer. It started in her throat." Dean has a vivid picture of Belinda Montrose's butchered throat in his mind's eye, and yeah, that makes a sick kind of sense. "Laura Lightner was the same way. She had a high risk pregnancy, and Bud tried to cut it out of her. But Cheryl Kramer was different. Paul had schizophrenia, and that's not a literal _thing,_ like a tumor or a baby, but she still tried to get it out of his brain, like it was something physical she could pluck out."

Sam pauses, like he expects Dean to say something that pulls it all together. After a few seconds he looks away and says "He made you think you could rip something bad out of me. You kept telling me you were going to fix me, that you were getting something out of my heart."

And oh, shit, Dean gets it. Whatever the hell is going on with Sam, Dean was trying to carve it out of his brother's heart. "Fuck. Sam," he says. "You know that wasn't really me, right? You know I'm not walking around on a daily basis thinking there's something bad inside you that I need to cut out."

Sam closes his eyes and doesn't respond for a minute. He doesn't open them when he finally speaks. "Those people all had something that was harming them. Something inside them. Belinda's cancer, Laura's pregnancy, Paul's schizophrenia. And they all had someone who took care of them, who loved them, that wanted it gone."

Sam's looking at Dean now, silently, like he's trying to decide what to say, or how to say it, or if it should be said at all. "Dean?" he says softly. "Tell me the truth. Do you know what's wrong with me?"

"Other than the fact that I tried to fucking kill you?"

"No, not that. You were pretty convinced there was something in my heart. Is that what Dad told you? Is that's wrong with me? Is that what the demon meant? There's something about my heart?" He takes a deep breath. "I mean I know, it's just symbolic. The heart is just a muscle; it's not like it really holds your soul or your inherent goodness or anything like that. But if Dad told you I was basically evil, that it was part of what I am, when you were in the trance you could have interpreted that, you know, as my heart. Like Paul's mother trying to get something out of his brain." Dean stares at him, dumbfounded. "Do I have... am I... what did Dad know?"

Oh, Jesus. "Sam, please, don't."

"Dean. If you know, tell me. Do I have some kind of evil in me? In my heart? Is that why the demon had plans for me?"

If there's one thing Dean knows about his brother, it's that he doesn't have evil in his heart. "No, man, no. I'm sorry. I don't know. If Dad knew, he didn't tell me. All he said was that I had to save you, and if I couldn't, I might have to kill you. I don't know what I have to save you from. I don't know why that asshole made me think it was in your heart. I don't know. I'm sorry." 

"Okay." Sam's voice is quiet and sad, and disappointed, like it would make it better if you knew _why_ your brother might have to kill you, why he was willing to slowly carve out your heart...

"Hey, Sam? Why did you let me do that?"

"Let you?" Sam raises his bandaged arm to point at himself, his jaw bruised, his throat purple and red. "What part of this says I _let you_ do anything?"

"I mean, I remember you telling me to do it slow. What the fuck was that all about? Why did you want me to do it slow?"

"You remember that?"

"Yeah. That's the first thing I remember. You telling me to do it slow and to look at what I was doing." _(The blood, God, the blood.)_

"I wanted you to see the blood. Cheryl and Darius both said they saw the blood and then they woke up. Like they knew what they'd done as soon as they saw the blood. So I thought, you know, maybe the sight of the blood snapped them out of the spell. It didn't occur to me until..." Sam's voice trails off.

"Until I tried to kill you. You just figured that out right then and there." _Right as I was slicing my way down to your heart._ "God, Sam. I am so sorry."

Sam grins weakly. "It was a pretty good theory. And I was right."

"Yeah, you were right." _And if you'd been wrong, I would have just slowly and painfully carved your fucking heart right out of your chest._ "But why the hell is this happening in the first place? You got a brilliant theory about that?

"Honestly, the only thing I can think of is Pastor Clark. It could be his prayers for healing are accidentally triggering it. He prayed for Belinda. I'm sure he prayed for Paul. I know Bud Phillips talked to him at Belinda's funeral, and maybe he asked him to pray for Laura. Doesn't matter. If we get rid of whatever is holding Fleming here, that should take care of it."

Good old Pastor Clark, who was so concerned about Sam's well-being... "Wait a minute. That son of a bitch _prayed for you!"_

Sam laughs a little, then winces and puts a hand to his chest. The chest that Dean just carved up and no, no, fuck, stop thinking about it, stop picturing what would have happened if Sam hadn't figured it out, stop imagining coming out of that trance to find yourself standing over Sam's bloody corpse, just _fucking stop._

Dean stands up, because he has to do something that doesn't involve looking at his brother's pale, bruised face and bandaged body. He checks the progress of Sam's blood transfusion. "Looks like you're almost done here. How do you feel?"

Sam takes a deep breath. "This is why you have to do it, Dean," he says. "If it comes to it."

Dean whirls around to face him. "No, Sam. This is why I _can't_ do it. You've got no idea how I feel right now. You don't know what it feels like," he says, slapping his palm on his chest, "knowing I almost killed you. And this time it wasn't even intentional. How the fuck am I supposed to kill you on purpose? How am I gonna feel after that? How am I supposed to live with that?"

"How's it gonna feel if you don't?" Sam says softly. "I'm sorry, I know it's not fair that it's all on you, but it is. How will you feel if you let me go darkside, and civilians end up dead? What if I kill someone? What if I hurt _you,_ Dean? You're gonna make me live with that?" Sam's voice breaks, and Dean wants to say, _to hell with the civilians, Sam. Just once, can't we be more important? Just this once?_ He wants to say, _watching you burn the world couldn't be any worse than watching you die at my hand._ He wants to say a lot of things. But he doesn't. There's no point. He collapses back into the chair and very carefully avoids looking at Sam, because that's going to break him right now.

Sam takes silence for assent, composes himself, and continues. "Dean? If it comes down to that. If you do have to do it." He bites his lip and looks at Dean warily, like he expects him to stop him. But Dean's going to let him finish; he owes him that much. "I don't want to know, okay? I don't want to see you or know it's coming. Just sneak up behind me or do it in my sleep if you can. I don't want to watch."

 _Again._ Sam doesn't want to watch Dean try to kill him _again._

So this is where they are. They're negotiating how Dean's going to kill his little brother. Okay then. He scrubs a tired hand down his face and sits hunched over, elbows on his knees, staring at Sam's blood still caked under his fingernails. He'd do anything for Sam, except the one thing he wants most, and he doesn't know how he got here. He doesn't know how this is his life.

"You know, if I ever have to put a bullet in your brain, I'll need a second one for me, right?"

At one time, Sam would have fought him. At one time he _did_ fight him - in that exam room in Oregon, steadily and stupidly insisting that it didn't have to be over for Dean, that he could kill his brother in cold blood and the world would keep on turning. But now Sam doesn't fight. He just turns away, staring at nothing. "As long as you do me first," he says quietly. "Please."

It's words. It's just words. Words like _it's going to be okay or it was just a nightmare, it's not going to come true._ Or _nothing bad's going to happen to you as long as I'm around._ Words, it turns out, don't mean anything. But there is one thing he can tell him, one thing he can make true.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean says. "I won't let you hurt anyone. I promise."


End file.
